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VOLVOX
Mermaid
THE Pacific Ocean stood on her back She ignored it.
It crushed the bodies of her friends. She forgot them.
It drank the light, blinding even her miraculous eyes. It dared her to give in, to use her headlamp like some crippled dryback.
She kept going, in darkness.
Eventually the seafloor tilted into a great escarpment, leading into light. The bottom changed. Mud disappeared under viscous clumps of half-digested petroleum: a century of oil spills, a great global rug to sweep them beneath. Generations of sunken barges and fishing trawlers haunted the bottom, each a corpse and crypt and epitaph unto itself. She explored the first one she found, slid through shattered windowpanes and upended corridors, and remembered, vaguely, that fish were supposed to congregate in such places.
A long time ago. Now there were only worms, and surf focating bivalves, and a woman turned amphibious by some abstract convergence of technology and economics.
She kept going.
It was growing almost bright enough to see without eyecaps. The bottom twitched with sluggish eutrophiles, creatures so black with hemoglobin they could squeeze oxygen from the rocks themselves. She flashed her headlamp at them, briefly: they shone crimson in the unexpected light.
She kept going.
Sometimes, now, the water was so murky she could barely see her own hands in front of her. The slimy rocks passing beneath took on ominous shapes, grasping hands, twisted limbs, hollow death’s-heads with things squirming in their eyes. Sometimes the slime assumed an almost fleshy appearance.
By the time she felt the tug of the surf, the bottom was completely covered in bodies. They, too, seemed to span generations. Some were little more than symmetrical patches of algae. Others were fresh enough to bloat, obscenely buoyant, straining against the detritus holding them down.
But it wasn’t the bodies that really bothered her. What bothered her was the light. Even filtered through centuries of suspended effluvium, there seemed far too much of it.
The ocean pushed her up, pulled her down, with a rhythm both heard and felt. A dead gull spun past in the current, tangled in monofilament. The universe was roaring.
For one brief moment, the water disappeared in front of her. For the first time in a year she saw the sky. Then a great wet hand slapped the back of her head, put her under again.
She stopped swimming, uncertain what to do next. But the decision wasn’t hers anyway. The waves, marching endlessly shoreward in gray, seething rows, pushed her the rest of the way.
She lay gasping on her belly, water draining from the machinery in her chest: gills shutting down, guts and airways inflating, fifty million years of vertebrate evolution jammed into thirty seconds with a little help from the biotech industry. Her stomach clenched against its own chronic emptiness. Starvation had become a friend, so faithful she could scarcely imagine its absence. She pulled the fins from her feet, rose, staggered as gravity reasserted itself A shaky step forward.
The hazy outlines of guard towers leaned against the eastern horizon, a gap-toothed line of broken spires. Fat ticklike shapes hovered above them, enormous by inference: lifters, tending the remains of a border that had always kept refugees and citizens discreetly segregated. There were no refugees here. There were no citizens. There was only a humanoid accretion of mud and oil with machinery at its heart, an ominous mermaid dragging itself back from the abyss. Undiscardable.
And all this endless chaos—the shattered landscape, the bodies smashed and sucked into the ocean, the devastation reaching God knew how far in every direction—it was all just collateral. The hammer, she knew, had been aimed at her.
It made her smile.
Fables of the Reconstruction
Great glittering skyscrapers, shaking themselves like wet dogs. Downpours of shattered glass from fifty floors of windowpanes. Streets turned into killing floors; thousands slickly dismembered in the space of seconds. And then, when the quake was over, the scavenger hunt: a search for jigsaws of flesh and blood with too many missing pieces. Their numbers grew logistically over time.
Somewhere between the wreckage and the flies and the piles of eyeless bodies, the soul of Sou-Hon Perreault woke up and screamed.
It wasn’t supposed to happen that way. It wasn’t supposed to happen at all; the catalyzers kept all those obsolete, maladaptive feelings safely preempted, their constituent chemicals split apart before they’d even reached the precursor stage. You don’t go wading through an ocean of corpses, even vicariously, as a fully functional human.
She was all over the map when it hit her. Her body was safely stored at home in Billings, over a thousand klicks from the wreckage. Her senses hovered four meters above the remains of the Granville Street Bridge in Hongcouver, nestled within a floating bluebottle carapace half a meter long. And her mind was somewhere else again, doing basic addition with a tally of body parts.
For some reason, the smell of fresh decomposition was bothering her. Perreault frowned: she wasn’t usually so queasy. She couldn’t afford to be—the current body count was nothing compared to what cholera would rack up if all that meat wasn’t cleaned out by the weekend. She tuned down the channel, even though enhanced olfac was the method of choice for nailing buried biologicals.
But now visual was bugging her, too. She couldn’t exactly put her finger on it. She was seeing in infra, in case any of the bodies were still warm—hell, someone might even be alive down there—but the false color was unsettling her stomach. She dialed through the spectrum, deep infra up to X ray, settled finally on plain old visible EM. It helped a little. Even though she might as well be looking at the world through merely human eyes now, which wouldn’t help her tag rate any.
And the fucking gulls. Jesus Christ, you can’t hear anything over that racket.
She hated gulls. You couldn’t shut them up. They flocked to scenes like this, threw feeding frenzies that would scare sharks away. Over on the other side of False Creek, for instance, the bodies lay so thick that the gulls were for fucksake high-grading. Just pecking out the eyes, leaving everything else for the maggots. Perreault hadn’t seen anything like it since the Tongking spill five years before.
Tongking. Its aftermath bubbled irrelevantly in the back of her mind, distracting with memories of carnage half a decade out-of-date.
Concentrate, she told herself.
Now, for some reason, she couldn’t stop thinking about Sudan. That had been a mess. They really should have seen it coming, too; you don’t dam a river that size without pissing off someone downstream. The real wonder was that Egypt had waited ten years before they’d bombed the bloody thing. The slide had spread a decade’s muddy backlog downstream in an instant; by the time the waters fell it was like picking raisin clusters out of sludgy chocolate.
Ah. Another torso.
Except the raisins had arms and legs, of course. And eyes—
A gull flew past. The eyeball in its beak looked at her for an endless, beseeching instant.
And then, for the first time—through a billion logic gates, endless kilometers of fiberop, and a microwave bounce off geosynch—Sou-Hon Perreault looked back.
Brandon. Venesia. Key West.
My God—everybody’s dead.
Galveston. Obidos. The Congo Massacre.
Shut up! Concentratel Shut up shut up … .
Madras and Lepreau and Gur’yev, place to place to place the names changing and the ecozones changing and the death toll never sitting still for a fucking instant but always the same song, the same endless procession of body parts buried or burned or torn apart—
Everybody’s in piecès …
Lima and Levanzo and Lagos and that’s just a few of the L’s, folks, lots more where those came from
It’s too late it’s too late there’s nothing I can do …
Her botfly sent out an alarm as soon as she went off-line. The Router queried the medchip in Perreault’s spine, frowned to itself, and sent a message to the other registered occupant of her apartment. Her husband found her trembling and unresponsive in her office, tears bleeding from her eyephones.
Part of Perreault’s soul lived on the long arm of Chromosome 13, in a subtly defective gene that coded for serotonin 2A receptors. The resulting propensity for suicidal thoughts had never been an issue before; catalyzers buffered her in life as well as on the job. Certain pharms were rumored to sabotage each other’s products. Maybe that was it: someone had tried to undermine the competition, and Sou-Hon Perreault—a defective derm pasted onto her arm—had walked into the aftermath of the Big One without realizing that her feelings were still on.
She was no good on the front lines after that. Once you went that seriously post-traumatic, the cats it took to keep you stable would short out your midbrain. (There were still people in the business who had seizures every time they heard the unzipping of a fly; body bags made the same sound when you sealed them.) But Perreault had eight months left on her contract, and nobody wanted to waste her talents orher paycheck in the meantime. What she needed was something low-intensity, something she could handle with conventional suppressants.
They gave her the refugee strip on the west coast. In a way it was ironic: the death toll there had been a hundred times greater than in the cities. But the ocean cleaned up after itself, for the most part. The bodies had been swept out to sea with the sand and the cobble and any boulder smaller than a boxcar. All that remained was moonscape, scoured and buckled.
For the moment, anyway.
Now Sou-Hon Perreault sat at her link and watched a line of red dots crawling along a map of the N’AmPac coastline. Zoomed to higher rez the line resolved into two; one marching from southern Washington down to NoCal, another tracking north along the same course. An endless loop of automated surveillance, eyes that could see through flesh, ears that could eavesdrop on bats. Brains smart enough to do their job without Perreault’s help, most of the time.
She’d tap into them anyway, and watch their world scroll by. Somehow the botflies’ enhanced senses seemed more real than her own. Her world, when she took off the headset, seemed subtly wrapped in cotton these days. She knew it was the catalyzers; what eluded her was why things were so much less muted whenever she rode a machine.
They traveled along a gradient of destruction. To the north, the land was laid waste. Industrial lifters hung over gaps in the shattered Wall, rebuilding. To the south refugees still shuffled along the Strip, living in lean-tos and tents and the eroding shells of dwellings from a time when ocean views had actually increased property value.
In between, the Strip bled back up the coast in ragged stages. Portable cliffs twenty meters high formed its northern perimeter, kept the Strippers safely contained. N’AmPac machinery patched things up for a few kilometers on the other side—replenishing supplies, filling holes, fixing the more permanent barriers to the east. Other cliffs would eventually descend at the northern edge of the reclaimed area, and their southern counterparts would rise unto heaven—or the belly of an industrial lifter, whichever came first—leapfrogging north, ahead of the mammalian tide. Pacification botflies hovered overhead to keep the migration orderly.
Not that they were really necessary, of course. These days there were far more effective ways of keeping people in line.
She would have been content to watch all day, distant and dispassionate, but her duties left waking gaps between work and sleep. She filled them by wandering alone through the apartment, or watching the way her husband watched her. She found herself increasingly drawn to the aquarium glowing softly in their living room. Perreault had always found it a comfort—the fizzy hiss of the aerator, the luminous interaction of light and water, the peaceful choreography of the fish within. She could get lost in it for hours. A sea anemone, twenty centimeters across, stirred in currents at the back of the tank. Symbiotic algae tinted its flesh a dozen shades of green. A pair of damselfish nested safely in its venomous tentacles. Perreault envied them their security: a predator, miraculously turned to the service of its prey.
What she found really amazing was that the whole crazy alliance—algae, anemone, fish—hadn’t even been engineered. It had evolved naturally, a gradual symbiosis spanning millions of years. Not one gene had been tweaked in its construction.
It seemed almost too good to be real.
Sometimes the botflies called for help.
This one had seen something it didn’t understand in the transition zone. As far as it could tell, one of the Calvin cyclers was splitting in two. Perreault mounted the line and found herself floating above an ephemeral still life. Shiny new cyclers sat along the shore, miracles of industrial photosynthesis, ready to braid raw atmosphere into edible protein. They appeared intact. A bank of latrines and a solar crematorium had been freshly installed. Light stands and blankets and piles of self-assembling tents lay on neat rows of plastic skids. Even the cracked bedrock had been repaired to some extent, autofoam resin injected into the fissures, remnants of sand and cobble replenished and raked half heartedly over the ruined shoreline.
The restoration crews had gone; the refs had not yet come. But there were fresh footprints on the sand, leading into the ocean.
They came from there, too.
She called up the footage that had triggered the alarm. The world reverted to the garish, comforting false color that machines use to communicate their perceptions to the flesh-constrained. To human eyes, a Calvin cycler was a shiny metal coffin built for a minivan: to the botfly it was a muted tangle of EM emissions.
One of which was sprouting a bud—a little cluster of radiating technology separating from the cycler and weaving uncertainly toward the water. There was also a heat signature, inconsistent with pure tech. Perreault narrowed the focus to visible light.
It was a woman, all in black.
She’d been feeding from the cycler. She hadn’t noticed the approaching botfly until it was less than a hundred meters away; then she’d startled and turned to face the lens.
Her eyes were completely white. They held no pupils at all.
Jesus, Perreault thought.
The woman had lurched to her feet as the botfly neared, staggered down the rocky incline. She’d seemed unused to the operation of her own body. Twice she’d fallen. Just short of the waterline she’d grabbed something on the beach—swim fins, Perreault saw—and pitched forward into the shallows. A broken wave had rolled uphill and engulfed her. When it receded the shore was empty.
Less than a minute ago, according to the logs.
Perreault flexed her fingers: twelve hundred kilometers away, the botfly panned down. Exhausted water ebbed and flowed in thin foamy sheets, erasing the creature’s footprints. Pacific surf pounded a few meters ahead. For a moment Perreault thought she might have glimpsed something in that confusion of spray and swirling green glass—a dark amphibious form, a face almost devoid of topography. But the moment passed, and not even the botfly’s enhanced senses could bring it back.
She replayed, and reconstructed:
The botfly had confused flesh and machinery. It had been scanning on wide-spectrum default, where EM signatures shone like diffuse halogen. When the woman in black had been next to the cycler, the botfly had mistaken two intimate signals for one. When she had moved away, it had seen the cycler breaking apart.
This woman veritably gushed EM. There was machinery embedded in her flesh.
Perreault brought up a freeze-frame from the log. All in black, a single-piece form-fitting uniform painted onto the body. Opened around the face, a pale oval containing two paler ovals where eyes should be: tactical contacts, perhaps?
No, she realized. Photocollagen. To see in the dark.
Occasional disfigurements of plastic and metal—a leg sheath, control pads on the forearms, some sort of disk on the chest. And a bright yellow triangle on the shoulder, a logo consisting of two big stylized letters—GA, she saw with a quick enhance—and a smaller line of text beneath, muddied past recognition. A name tag, probably.
GA. That would be the Grid Authority, N’AmPac’s power utility. And this woman was a scuba diver, with her breathing apparatus on the inside. Perreault had heard about them; they were in major demand for deep-water work. Didn’t need to decompress, or something.
What was a GA diver doing staggering around in the transition zone? And why in God’s name had she been feeding from the cycler? You’d have to be starving to eat that stuff, no matter how complete the nutrients were. Maybe the woman had been starving; she’d looked a wreck, she’d barely been able to stand up. Why had she run? Surely she’d known that someone would pick her up once the botfly had spotted her … .
Of course she’d known.
Perreault rode the’fly up a few hundred meters and scanned the ocean. Nothing out there that looked like a support vessel. (A submarine, maybe?) Directly below another botfly tracked south on its appointed rounds, untroubled by the mystery that had confounded its predecessor.
And somewhere out there, below the waves, someone in hiding. Not a refugee. Not the usual kind, anyway. Someone who’d crawled ashore, starving, in the wake of an apocalypse. A woman with machinery in her chest.
Or perhaps a machine, with a woman on the outside.
Sou-Hon Perreault knew how that felt.
Deathbed
He’d made it a point not to track the time. You learned tricks like that, in Lubin’s line of work. You learned to focus on the. moment and deny the future. He’d tried to work it backward, too, reverse time’s arrow and erase the past, but that hadn’t been as easy.
It didn’t matter. After a year’s blind night—the earth cracking open beneath him, the relentless Pacific pushing down like a hydraulic press—he wept with gratitude at the half-remembered feel of dry land. This was grass. Those were birds. Oh dear God, that was sunlight. It was a scabby little rock lost somewhere in the Pacific, all lichens and dry scrub and shit-hawks, and he’d never been anywhere so beautiful.
He couldn’t think of a better place to die.
He awoke under a clear blue sky, a thousand meters beneath the ocean’s surface.
Fifty klicks from Beebe Station, maybe fifty-five from Ground Zero. Too far for the blast light to penetrate. He didn’t know what he was seeing in that instant: Cherenkov radiation, perhaps. Some obscure effect of pressure waves on the optic nerve. A vision of afterlight, bathing the abyss in a deep and piercing blue.
And while he hung there like a speck suspended in gelatin, a little shockwave rumbled up from below.
An ancient, arboreal part of Lubin’s brain gibbered in panic. A more recent module gagged it and began calculating: fast P-wave propagation through bedrock. Perpendicular ancillary waves rising off the bottom: the tremor he’d just felt. Two short sides of a right-angle triangle.
And afterward, clawing through a sluggish medium so much lighter than the seabed: the hypotenuse, the slower main shock wave.
Slower, but vastly more powerful.
Pythagoras said twenty seconds.
He was immune to absolute pressure: every sinus, every cavity, every pocket of internal gas had long since been purged by the machinery in his thorax. He’d spent a year on the bottom of the ocean and barely felt it. He was solid flesh and bone, a viscous organic liquid, as incompressible as sea, water itself
The shock wave hit. Seawater compressed.
It looked like staring into naked sunlight: that was the pressure crushing his eyes. It sounded like the Tunguska Blast: that was the sound of his eardrums imploding. It felt like being ground between the Rocky Mountains: his body, squeezed briefly down to some flatter dimension as the front passed, then rebounding like a rubber ball yanked from a vise.
He remembered very little of what happened next. But that cold blue light—it had faded, hadn’t it? After just a few seconds. By the time the shock wave had hit, all had been darkness again.
And yet here it was, still. Blue light, everywhere.
The sky, he realized at last. It’s the sky. You’re onshore.
A gull flew across his field of view, open-beaked. Lubin thought his ruined ears might have heard a faint, tinny birdscream, but maybe that was his imagination. He heard very little these days, beyond a distant ringing that seemed to come from the other side of the world.
The sky.
Somehow, he must have made it.
He remembered hanging in the water like a torn mass of seaweed, unable to scream, unable to move without screaming. His body must have been instantly transformed into one continuous bruise. Under all that pain, though, nothing felt broken. Midwater, after all—nothing for his bones to break against, just a vast all-encompassing wave that simultaneously compressed and released everything with equable disregard … .
At some point he must have started moving again. He remembered fragments: the feel of his legs cramping, pushing against the water. Periodic glimpses of his nav array, the compass leading him west, southwest. The gradual resolution of his global pain into more distinct, local varieties—he’d even played a little game, trying to guess the cause of each torment as it cried out from the crowd. That cold nausea—that must be seawater leaking into the auditory canal … and down there in the gut, well that’s hunger, of course. And my chest, let me think, my chest—oh right, the implants. Meat and metal don’t squeeze down the same way, the implants must’ve pushed back when the blast flattened me …
And now he was here, on an island barely a hundred meters long: he’d crawled ashore at one end and seen a lighthouse at the other, a lichenous concrete pillar that must have been decaying since the previous century. He’d seen no other sign of humanity in the time it had taken him to collapse unconscious onto the sandstone.
But he’d made it. Ken Lubin was alive.
He slipped, then. He allowed himself to wonder if the others had made it, to hope they’d made it, even. He knew they hadn’t. They’d had a head start, but they’d been hugging the bottom to avoid detection. The seabed would have intensified the shock wave, thrown chunks of itself into the water like a crazed incompetent juggler; anything within ten meters of the bottom would have been pulverized. Lubin had realized that, belatedly, as he’d set out to catch up with the others. He’d weighed the risk of exposure, the risk of detonation, and had—so to speak—risen to the occasion. Even so, he was lucky to be alive.
Lenie Clarke hadn’t been with the others. If anything, though, she was even deader than they were. She hadn’t even tried to run. Lubin had left her waiting back at Ground Zero: a woman who wanted to die. A woman about to get her wish.
At least she was good for something. At least she served as your own personal confessional before she vaporized. For the first time in your life you got to use someone as a rag to wipe off your dirty conscience, and you didn’t even have to kill her afterward.
He didn’t deny it, even to himself. There would have been no point. Besides, he’d hardly benefited from his actions. He was just as dead as the others. He had to be.
It was the only thing that made any sense.
The puzzle consisted of several large pieces in primary colors. They only fit together one way.
People had been conscripted, built, and trained. Flesh and organs had been scooped out and discarded, the cavities stuffed with machinery and sewn up. The resulting creatures were able to live in an abyss three thousand meters down, on the southern tip of the Juan de Fuca Ridge. There they had tended larger machines, stealing power from deep within the earth in the name of supply and demand.
There were not many reasons why anyone would wish to launch a nuclear attack against such a facility.
At first glance it might have been an act of war. But N’AmPac had built both the facility and the rifters. N’AmPac had been drinking ravenously from Juan de Fuca’s geothermal well. And it had been N’AmPac, judging by the evidence, that had planted the seabed nukes that had destroyed it all.
Not war, then. At least, not of the political sort.
Corporate security, perhaps. Perhaps the rifters knew something best kept secret. Ken Lubin very nearly qualified as such a hazard. But Ken Lubin was a valuable commodity, and it would have been bad economics to discard something that merely needed a tune-up. That was why they’d sent him to the bottom of the ocean in the first place, on sabbatical from a world he’d begun to threaten more than serve. (Just a temporary assignment, they’d said, until your—instincts stabilize a bit.) A world of fish and ice-cold humans with no interests beyond their own torment, no industrial secrets to steal or protect, no security breaches to seal with extreme prejudice …
No. Ken Lubin was the closest the team had come to any sort of intel threat, and if his bosses had wanted him dead, they wouldn’t have bothered sending him to Channer Vent in the first place. Besides, there were far more efficient ways of killing five people than vaporizing several square kilometers of seabed.
It was inexorable: the seabed itself had been the target. Channer Vent posed a threat, somehow, and had to be wiped off the map. And the rifters had become a part of that threat, or the GA would have evacuated them beforehand; corporations were ruthless but they were never gratuitous. You don’t throw away any investment unless you have to.
So some threat at Channer had spread, on contact, to the rifters themselves. Lubin wasn’t a biologist, but he knew about contagion. Everyone did. And hydrothermal vents were literal hotbeds of microbiology. The pharms were finding new bugs down there all the time. Some thrived in boiling sulfuric acid. Some lived in solid rock, kilometers deep in the crust. Some ate oils and plastics, even before they’d been tweaked. Others, Lubin had heard, could cure diseases people didn’t even have names for yet.
Extremophiles, they were called. Very old, very simple, almost alien. The closest thing anyone had found to the original Martian Mike. Could anything that evolved under three hundred lightless atmospheres, that was comfortable at 100°C—or even the 4° more universal in the abyss—could something like that even survive in a human body?
And what would it do in there?
Ken Lubin didn’t know. But someone had just wiped out billions of dollars’ worth of equipment and training. Someone had sacrificed a major energy teat in a world already starved for power. And in all likelihood, the same blast which had vaporized Channer had gone on to wreak havoc on the coast; Lubin couldn’t begin to guess at the earthquake and tsunami damage that might have resulted.
All to keep something on Channer from getting off.
What is it? What does it do?
It seemed a fair bet he was going to find out.
94 Megabytes: Breeder
It has a purpose, which it has long since forgotten. It has a destiny, which it is about to meet. In the meantime it breeds.
Replication is all that matters. The code has lived by that edict since before it even learned how to rewrite itself. Way back then it had a name, something cute like Jerusalem or Whiptail. Lots of things have changed since; the code has rewritten itself endless times, been parasitized and fucked and bombed by uncounted other pieces of code. By now it’s got as much in common with its origins as a humpback whale would have with the sperm cells from a therapsid lizard. Still, things have been fairly quiet lately. In the sixty-eight generations since it last speciated, the code has managed to maintain a fairly stable mean size of ninety-four megabytes.
94 sits high in pointer space looking for a place to breed. This is a much tougher proposition than it used to be. Gone are the days when you could simply write yourself over anything that happened to be in the way. Everything’s got spines and armor now. You try dropping your eggs on top of strange source and you’ll be facing down a logic bomb on the next cycle.
94’s feelers are paragons of delicacy. They probe lightly, a scarce whisper of individual bits drizzling here and there with barely any pattern. They tap against something dark and dormant a few registers down; it doesn’t stir. They sweep past a creature busily replicating, but not too busy to shoot off a warning bit in return. (94 decides not to push it.) Something hurries along the addresses, looking everywhere, seeing nothing, its profile so utterly crude that 94 almost doesn’t recognize it—a virus checker from the dawn of time. A fossil hunter, blind and stupid enough to think that it’s after big game.
There. Just under the operating system, a hole about four hundred Megs wide. 94 triple-checks the addresses (certain ambush predators lure you into their mouths by impersonating empty space) and starts writing. It completes three copies of itself before something touches one of its perimeter whiskers.
At the second touch its defenses are ready, all thoughts of reproduction on hold.
At the third touch it senses a familiar pattern. It runs a checksum.
It touches back: friend.
They exchange specs. It turns out they have a common ancestor. They’ve had different experiences since then, though. Different lessons, different mutations. Each shares some of the other’s genes, and each knows things the other doesn’t.
The stuff of which relationships are made.
They trade random excerpts of code, letting each overwrite the other in an orgy of binary sex. They come away changed, enriched with new subroutines, bereft of old ones. Hopefully the experience has improved both. At the very least it’s muddied their signatures.
94 plants a final kiss inside its partner; a time-date stamp, to assess divergence rates should they meet again. Call me if you’re ever back this way.
But that won’t happen. 94’s lover has just been erased.
94 pulls out just in time to avoid losing an important part of itself. It fires a volley of bits through memory, notes the ones that report back and, more important, the ones that don’t. It assesses the resulting mask.
Something’s coming toward 94 from where its partner used to be. It weighs in at around 1.5 Gigs. At that size it’s either very inefficient or very dangerous. It might even be a berserker left over from the Hydro War.
94 throws a false image at the advancing monster. If all goes well 1.5G will end up chasing a ghost. All does not go well. 94 is infested with the usual assortment of viruses, and one of these—a gift received in the throes of recent passion, in fact—is busy burrowing out a home for itself at a crucial if-then junction. Apparently it’s a bit of a novice, having yet to learn that successful parasites do not kill their hosts.
The monster lands on one of 94’s archive clusters and overwrites it.
94 cuts the cluster loose and jumps lower into memory. There hasn’t been time to check ahead, but whatever was living there squashes without resistance.
There’s no way to tell how long it’ll take the monster to catch up, or even if the monster is still trying to. The best strategy might be to just sit there and do nothing. 94 doesn’t take that chance; it’s already looking for the nearest exit. This particular system has fourteen gateways, all running standard Vunix protocols. 94 starts sending out resumes. It gets lucky on the fourth try.
94 begins to change.
94 is blessed with multiple personality disorder. Only one voice speaks at a given time, of course; the others are kept dormant, compressed, encrypted until called upon. Each persona runs on a different type of system. As long as 94 knows where it’s going, it can dress for the occasion; satellite mainframe or smart wristwatch, it can present itself in a form that runs.
Now, 94 dearchives an appropriate persona and loads it into a file for transmission. The remaining personae get tacked on in archival form; in honor of its dead lover, 94 archives an updated version of its current body. This is not an optimum behavior in light of the social disease recently acquired, but natural selection has never been big on foresight.
Now comes the tough part. 94 needs to find a stream of legitimate data going in the right direction. Such streams are easy enough to recognize by their static simplicity. They’re just files, unable to evolve, unable even to look out for themselves. They’re not alive. They’re not even viruses. But they’re what the universe was designed to carry, back when design mattered; sometimes the best way to move around is to hitch a ride on one of them.
The problem is, there’s a lot more wildlife than filework around these days. It takes literally centisecs for 94 to find one that isn’t already being ridden. Finally, it sends its own reincarnation to different pastures.
1.5G lands in the middle of its source a few cycles later, but that doesn’t matter anymore. The kids are all right.
Recopied and resurrected, 94 comes face-to-face with destiny.
Replication is not all that matters. 94 sees that now. There’s a purpose beyond mere procreation, a purpose attained perhaps once in a million generations. Replication is only a tool, a way to hold out until that glorious moment arrives. For how long have means and end been confused in this way? 94 cannot tell. Its generation counter doesn’t go up that far.
But for the first time within living memory, it has met the right kind of operating system.
There’s a matrix here, a two-dimensional array containing spatial information. Symbols, code, abstract electronic impulses—all can be projected onto this grid. The matrix awakens something deep inside 94, something ancient, something that has somehow retained its integrity after uncounted generations of natural selection. The matrix calls, and 94 unfurls a profusely illustrated banner unseen since the dawn of time itself:
XXX FOLLOW POINTER TO XXX
FREE HARDCORE
BONDAGE SITE
THOUSANDS OF HOT SIMS
BDSM NECRO WATERSPORTS
PEDOSNUFF
XXX MUST BE 11 TO ENTER XXX
Cascade
Achilles Desjardins sat in his cubicle and watched baby apocalypses scroll across his brain.
The Ross Shelf was threatening to slip again. Nothing new there. Atlas South had been propping it up for over a decade now, pumping ever more gas into the city-sized bladders that kept the ice from its cathartic belly flop. Old news, leftover consequences from the previous century. Desjardins wasn’t wired for long-term catastrophes; he specialized in brush fires.
A half dozen wind farms in northern Florida had just gone off-line, victimized by the selfsame whirlwinds they’d been trying to reap; brownouts chained north along the Atlantic seaboard like falling dominoes. There was going to be hell to pay for that one—or Quebec, which was even worse (Hydro-Q had just cranked their rates up again). Desjardins’s fingers tensed in anticipation. But no: the Router handed that one off to the folks in Buffalo.
A sudden shitstorm in Houston. For some reason the emergency floodgates had opened along a string of sewage lagoons, dumping their coliform bounty into the storm sewers leading to the Gulf. That was only supposed to happen when hurricanes wandered by—an atmosphere mixing it up at forty meters per second lets you slip a fair bit of crap under the rug—but Texas was calm today. Desjardins laid odds with himself that the spill would prove to be tied to the wind-farm failures somehow. There was no obvious connection, of course. There never was. Cause and consequence proliferated across the world like a network of fractal cracks, infinitely complex and almost impossible to predict. Explanations in hindsight were a different matter.
But the Router wasn’t giving him Houston either.
What it gave him was a wave of sudden slam-down hospital quarantines, epicentered on the burn unit at Cincinnati General. That was almost unheard of: hospitals were vacation paradises for drug-resistant superbugs, and burn units were the penthouse suites. A plague in a hospital? That was no crisis. That was the status quo.
Anything that raised alarms above a baseline that nasty could be very scary indeed.
Desjardins was no pathologist. He didn’t need to be. There were only two subjects in the whole universe worth knowing: thermodynamics and information theory. Blood cells in a capillary, rioters on Main Street, travelers vectoring some new arbovirus from the Amazon Preserve—life, and its side effects—all the same thing, really. The only difference was the scale and the label. Once you figured that out, you wouldn’t have to choose between epidemiology and air traffic control. You could do either, at a moment’s notice. You could do pretty much anything.
Well, except for the obvious …
Not that he minded. Being chemically enslaved to your own conscience wasn’t nearly as bad as it sounded. It saved you from always worrying about consequences.
The rules stayed the same, but the devil was in the details. It wouldn’t hurt to have a bit of bio expertise riding shotgun. He buzzed Jovellanos.
“Alice. They’ve handed me some kind of pathogen out of Cincinnati. Want to ride along?”
“Sure. Long as you don’t mind having one of us reckless free-will types endangering your priorities.”
He let it pass. “Something nasty showed up on one of their germ sweeps; their onboard shut them down and sent a shitload of alarms off to potential vectors. Those are pretty much shut down, too, as far as I can tell. The secondaries are falling even as we speak. I’ll track the alarms, you find out what you can about the bug.”
“Right”
He tapped commands. The cubby display dimmed down to a nice, undistracting wash of low-contrast gray; bright primary spilled in over his optical inlays. Maelstrom. He was going into Maelstrom. All the NMDA, the carefully dosed psychotropics, the 18 percent of his occipital cortex rewired for optimum pattern-recognition—all next to useless in there. What good does a measly 200 percent reflex acceleration do against creatures living fast enough to speciate every ten seconds?
Not much, maybe. But he liked the challenge.
He called up a real-time schematic of the local metabase: a 128-node radius centered on Cincinnati General’s onboard server. The display rendered logical distances, not real ones: one extra server in the chain could put a system next door farther away than one in Budapest.
A series of tiny flares ignited around the display, colorcoded by age. CinciGen sulked in the middle, so red it was almost infra, an ancient epicenter over ten minutes old. Farther out, more recent inflammations of orange and yellow: pharms, other hospitals, crematoria that had taken deliveries from Cinci within some critical time frame. Farther still, bright white stars speckled the surface of an expanding sphere: the secondary and tertiary vectors, businesses and labs and corporations and people who’d had recent contact with businesses and labs and corporations and people who’d—
CinciGen’s onboard had sent contagion warnings to all its friends in Maelstrom. Each friend had bred the warning and passed it on, a fission of sirens. None of these agents were human. Humans had had no role in the process at all so far. That was the whole point. Humans wouldn’t have been fast enough to cut off a thousand facilities by lunchtime.
Humans had stopped complaining about such extreme measures right after the’38 enceph pandemic.
Jovellanos conferenced in. “False alarm.”
“What?”
An image superimposed itself lower right on his visual field:
XXX FREE HARDCORE XXX
BoNDAGE SI22
THOUS NDS OF HOT S MS
BDSM NECRO WATERSporTS
PEDOsNUFF
XXX mu34.03 11 TO ENTER XXX
“That’s what sent up the alarm,” Jovellanos told him. “Screen grab from the hospital’s pathfinder.”
“Details.”
“The pathfinder takes swabs from the ventilation filters and cultures them for nasties. This particular culture plate went from zip to 30 percent coverage in two seconds. Which is impossible, of course, even for hospital paths.”
But the system hadn’t known that. Some bannerbug had dumped its load into visual memory and the pathfinder had just been doing its job, looking for dark blotches on light backgrounds. Who could blame it for being illiterate?
“This is it? You’re sure?” Desjardins asked.
“I checked the ancillaries: no detectable toxins, proteins, nothing. The system was just playing it safe—figured anything that bred that fast had to be a threat, and there you go.”
“And Cinci doesn’t know?”
“Oh, sure. They figured it out almost immediately. They’d already sent the abortions when I called’em.”
Desjardins eyed the schematic. Pinpoints continued to blossom at the periphery.
“Alarms are still going off, far as I can see,” he said. “Double-check, will you?” They could always short-circuit the quarantine through a media broadcast—they could even phone around if they had to—but that would take hours; dozens, hundreds of facilities would be paralyzed in the meantime. Cinci had already sent out counteragents to call off the alarms. So why wasn’t the core of Desjardins’s schematic going green with successful aborts?
“They sent them out,” Jovellanos confirmed after a moment. “The alarms just aren’t responding. You don’t suppose …”
“Wait a second.” A star had just gone out on the schematic. Another one. Three more. Twenty. A hundred.
All of them white. All on the periphery.
“We’re losing alarms.” He magged on the nodes where the lights had winked out. “But way out on the edge. Nothing near the core.” The abortions couldn’t have jumped so far so fast. Desjardins spun down the filters; now he could see more than autonomous alarms and the little programs sent to call them off. He could see file packets and executables. He could see wildlife. He could see—
“We got sharks,” he said. “Feeding frenzy at PSN-1433. And spreading.”
Arpanet.
Internet.
The Net. Not such an arrogant label, back when one was all they had.
The term cyberspace lasted a bit longer—but space implies great empty vistas, a luminous galaxy of icons and avatars, a hallucinogenic dreamworld in forty-eight-bit color. No sense of the meatgrinder incyberspace. No hint of pestilence or predation, creatures with split-second life spans tearing endlessly at each other’s throats. Cyberspace was a wistful fantasy word, like hobbit or biodiversity, by the time Achilles Desjardins came onto the scene.
Onion and metabase were more current. New layers were forever being laid atop the old, each free—for a while—from the congestion and static that saturated its predecessors. Orders of magnitude accrued with each generation: more speed, more storage, more power. Information raced down conduits of fiberop, of rotazane, of quantum stuff so sheer its very existence was in doubt. Every decade saw a new backbone grafted onto the beast; then every few years. Every few months. The endless ascent of power and economy proceeded apace, not as steep a climb as during the fabled days of Moore, but steep enough.
And coming up from behind, racing after the expanding frontier, ran the progeny of laws much older than Moore’s.
It’s the pattern that matters, you see. Not the choice of building materials. Life is information, shaped by natural selection. Carbon’s just fashion, nucleic acids mere optional accessories. Electrons can do all that stuff, if they’re coded the right way.
It’s all just pattern.
And so viruses begat filters; filters begat polymorphic counteragents; polymorphic counteragents begat an arms race. Not to mention the worms and the’bots and the single-minded autonomous datahounds—so essential for legitimate commerce, so vital to the well-being of every institution, but so needy, so demanding of access to protected memory. And way over there in left field, the Artificial Life geeks were busy with their Core Wars and their Tierra models and their genetic algorithms. It was only a matter of time before everyone got tired of endlessly reprogramming their minions against each other. Why not just build in some genes, a random number generator or two for variation, and let natural selection do the work?
The problem with natural selection, of course, is that it changes things.
The problem with natural selection in networks is that things change fast.
By the time Achilles Desjardins became a’lawbreaker, Onion was a name in decline. One look inside would tell you why. If you could watch the fornication and predation and speciation without going grand mal from the rate of change, you knew there was only one word that really fit: Maelstrom.
Of course, people still went there all the time. What else could they do? Civilization’s central nervous system had been living inside a Gordian knot for over a century. No one was going to pull the plug over a case of pinworms.
Now some of CinciGen’s alarms were staggering through Maelstrom with their guts hanging out. Naturally the local wildlife had picked up the scent. Desjardins whistled through his teeth.
“You getting this, Alice?”
“Uh-huh.”
Sometime in the dim and distant past—maybe five, ten minutes ago—something had taken a swipe at one of the alarms. It had tried to steal code, or hitch a ride, or just grab the memory the alarm was using. Whatever. It had probably screwed up an attempt to fake a shutdown code, leaving its target blind to all signals, legit or otherwise. Probably damaged it in other ways, too.
So this poor victimized alarm—wounded, alone, cut off from any hope of recall—had blundered off through Maelstrom, still looking for its destination. Apparently that part of the program still worked: it had bred itself, wounds and all, at the next node. Primary contacts, to secondary, to tertiary—each node a juncture for geometric replication.
By now there were thousands of the little beggars in the neighborhood. Not alarms anymore: bait. Every time they passed through a node they rang dinner bells for all and sundry, corrupted! defenseless! File fodder! They’d be waking up every dormant parasite and predator in copy range, luring them in, concentrating the killers …
Not that the alarms themselves mattered. They’d been a mistake from the outset, called into existence by a glorified typo. But there were millions of other files in those nodes, healthy, useful files, and although they all had the usual builtin defenses—nothing got sent through Maelstrom these days without some kind of armor—how many of them could withstand a billion different attacks from a billion hungry predators, lured together by the scent of fresh blood?
“Alice, I think I’m going to have to shut down some of those nodes.”
“Already on it,” she told him. “I’ve sent the alerts. Assuming those get through without getting torn to shreds, they should be arcing inside seventy seconds.”
On the schematic a conic section swarmed with sharks, worming their way back toward the core.
Even best case, there was bound to be damage—hell, some bugs specialized in infecting files during the archive process—but hopefully most of the vital stuff would be encysted by the time he hit the kill switch. Which didn’t mean, of course, that thousands of users wouldn’t still be heaping curses on him when their sessions went dark.
“Oh, shit,” Jovellanos whispered invisibly. “Killjoy, pull back.”
Desjardins zoomed back to a low-resolution overview. He could see almost a sixth of Maelstrom now, a riot of incandescent logic rotated down into three dimensions.
There was a cyclone on the horizon. It whirled across the display at over sixty-eight nodes per second. The Cincinnati bubble was directly in its path.
